THE DYING CHILD.
Translated by Mr. J. Thorman (Twrog), London.
IN a cottage clean and homely,
With the night, with the night,
Sat a mother sad and lonely,
With the night :
And on her knees reclining,
Her babe in pain was pining,
Whilst she with grief was crying,
To see her dariing dying
With the night, with the night.
At seeing her child's life waning
With the night, with the night,
Tho' heav'n a soul was gaining
With the night,
She prayed to God with weeping
To leave it in her keeping,
But death's rude hand came reaping
And took the child asleeping
With the night, with the night.
How like a drooping flower,
With the night, with the night,
Is the child's fast fading power,
With the night :
The dew howev'r at morning
Revives the flower's adorning,
But the mother's tears and mourning
Bring not the child's returning
With the night, with the night.
That day comes, heav'n be praised,
With the dawn, with the dawn,
When all the dead are raised,
With the dawn;
Bright angels shall be ringing
Their praise to God with singing,
And in their midst are bringing
The child with rapture winging
With the dawn, with the dawn.
